The Monday After
by ti2ger003
Summary: The sequel to my story "The Morning After". It is the Monday directly following that fateful Saturday in which much was drunk, learned, and overheard. What will everyone's reaction be? And did Booth REALLY name his goldfish after Bones?
1. Chapter One: Monday, Monday

**Here I am again, with my new story as promised! Sorry it took a little for me to get it up-- I had two term papers due this week. Not. Fun. :(**

**However, the term papers are in, and I now present the first chapter of the sequel to _The Morning After_ (which, if you haven't read, you should. Because this story feeds _directly _off of it. And because it is, if I do say so myself, a very nice piece of literature. :P )**

**Oh, and before I forget: Not mine. Never was. Never will be. Please don't sue (I don't have that kind of money.)  
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Chapter One- Monday, Monday**

It was Monday. Damn. I couldn't avoid talking to Booth anymore.

But I sure as hell could avoid talking about the events of Friday night and Saturday morning. And I could compartmentalize. I was good at that—I had had years of practice, after all.

I was going to be professional if it killed me, I decided as I grabbed my key ring (minus the key to Booth's apartment, which was still in the shoebox under my bed) and walked out the door. I would just have to act like Friday and Saturday never happened.

I'd also have to avoid any conversation topic that bordered on pets, pet names, or fish.

After all, if Saturday never happened, then I had no idea that Booth had a pet goldfish. Or that he'd named it after me.

I sighed as the elevator doors slid closed. _Professional, Tempe. You're a professional. And professionals do not let their personal lives encroach on their professional life. Today is no different from any other Monday._

I snorted, earning an odd glance from the only other occupant of the elevator.

_Today is going to pass _very_ slowly._

_

* * *

_

Today was Monday. Usually, I dreaded Mondays because Monday meant work, and work meant "horribly mutilated/deformed/emaciated murder victims" and other gross things that really should be outlawed.

(Except they are, and people _still_ do them to each other. It's enough to make a girl lose her faith in humanity sometimes.)

But this Monday was different. This Monday was the Monday directly following a Friday and Saturday that might have made me lose faith in my best friend's overall intelligence, but definitely reinforced my faith in humanity as a whole. It was also the first chance I'd had to talk to Booth about a certain pet of his. More specifically, his goldfish that was apparently named—wait for it—Bones.

Yeah, that's right. Bones. As in, a certain FB-eyecandy's nickname for one Dr. Temperance Brennan. Incidentally, that Dr. Temperance Brennan was the soul mate and happily-ever-after of Special Agent Seeley Booth (AKA, FB-eyecandy.) Which said Special Agent admitted to her on Friday.

Oh, yeah. Today was gonna _rock_.

* * *

I was running late. _Shit_._ Where'd my coffee go?_

_I need my coffee. Please? _

I could already tell that today was going to be a bad day. I'd slept through my alarm, lost the button on my fly, and almost killed myself shaving. It wasn't even nine o'clock, for crying out loud!

And to top it all off, it was Monday. Which meant work. Which meant seeing Bones. For the first time since Friday. The Friday that she'd effectively crushed my heart.

Unless Bones had jumped on a plane to Madagascar without telling me. Given the circumstances, that was entirely possible.

Either way, today was gonna be just_ great_. (Sarcastically speaking, of course.)

(God, I'm pathetic.)

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**Okay, first chapter down! D'you know what that means?**

**Yup, it means you must pay homage to the button that says "Review this Story/Chapter". Because if you don't, it will EAT YOU! :O**

**.... Okay, so it probably won't EAT you. But I'll cry and make puppy-dog eyes. And that is a sight that mankind never wants to see. :P R&R!**

**(And I'm sorry for the missing breaks between POVs... I swear I had them before I uploaded this.... But it's better now! :) )  
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	2. Chapter Two: When It All Hits The Fan

**Here's Chapter Two! This time, I swear the breaks are where they're supposed to be for this chapter. :blush: I SWEAR I had them before, though... :)**

**Okay... I decided that third person just wasn't working for these characters, so this chapter's now officially in first person. :)  
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Chapter Two—When It All Hits the Fan**

I rushed into my office at 9:20 on the dot, only (by some miracle) twenty minutes later than everyone else. Charlie grinned as I rushed by.

"Get mauled by your pet fish?" he asked, looking pointedly at the rather large band-aid that covered my chin. I glared at him.

"Cut myself shaving," I replied curtly. Charlie just grinned.

"That would explain the bloodstains on your shirt," he replied before busying himself with paperwork. I just rolled his eyes. There were no bloodstains on my shirt. I'd have noticed something like _that_. Charlie was just being a smartass.

The second I was behind the safety of my closed office door, though, I pulled at my shirt.

Sure enough, there were little drops of blood. On my white dress shirt. My _brand-new_ white dress shirt.

I sighed and re-tied my tie, noticing the paperwork taking over the desk. Today was going to be_ very _long. I could tell.

* * *

Usually, I looked forward to cases. Not because they meant gooey corpses and slimy, psychopathic murderers, but because I got to spend the whole time with Bones.

After Friday, though… Paperwork suddenly wasn't all that bad. Sure, it was monotonous, and sure, I wanted to shoot the idiot who thought making everything required in triplicate was a good idea (even though firing my FBI-issued weapon would just require _another_ form filled out in triplicate), and yeah, there were about a million other places that I'd rather be than stuck behind my desk, but today, the Jeffersonian was _not_ on that list of places.

There were a lot of reasons for that. Most of them (okay, _all_ of them) stemmed from the fact that three days before, Bones had basically broken my heart.

And yeah, it was (mostly) inadvertently, especially when you considered the fact that she didn't believe in love in the first place, but it still hurt like hell, and I'd gone straight to the bar near my apartment to drown my sorrows with the help of José Cuervo and Jack Daniels. After that, everything had been a bit fuzzy, but I certainly remembered the hangover I'd had.

(Hangovers like that made me wonder why people liked alcohol enough to become addicted to it. My head hurt just _thinking_ about it.)

I also had a vague memory of Bones talking to someone outside my apartment Saturday morning. Which was ridiculous, because why would Bones be trying to bash in my door the morning after she'd rejected me?

I shook my head tiredly. I was getting another headache. The entire situation was ridiculous enough to be asinine. How the _hell_ had I managed to fall for the one person on the face of the planet who didn't believe in love?

I was an idiot. That was the only explanation. A complete and total idiot. I just hoped that idiocy hadn't extended to my drinking Friday night, because I really _couldn't_ remember anything, and that scared the hell out of me. What if I'd called her or something? What if I'd shown up at her _apartment_?

_Oh, God._ I cradled my head in my hands, ignoring the pen that threatened to stab me in the eye. _I probably made a complete fool of myself. I'm never gonna be able to face Bones again._

_Maybe I can apply for desk duty or something.  
_

A junior agent chose that _exact_ moment to poke her head in my office. "Hacker says he needs these signed by you and Dr. Brennan by lunch," she reported, holding out a manila folder. I waved my hand vaguely, not bothering to look up.

"Right."

The folder dropped on the corner of my desk with a small _plop_, and the agent made her escape.

I sighed. _So much for never facing Bones again.

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_**Well? What do you think?**

**Chapter Three might take a while, unfortunately- I'm working on the proper response to being mauled by a coworker. ;) (Y'all can stew on that while I write... :P )  
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	3. Chapter Three: Acting Oddly

**Sorry for the delay, but Hodgins is a tough man to write, and I've got finals staring me in the face. :)**

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Chapter Three**

Something was up with Angela. For one thing, she had actually _smiled_ when she walked into the lab—something she _never_ did on a Monday. For another, when Dr. B basically brushed her off… Angela just kept _grinning._

To be honest, it was kind of freaking me out. Usually, if Dr. B brushed Ange off like that, she'd start making innuendos. _Lots_ of innuendos. But today? Nothing. Dr. B had practically barricaded herself in her office, and Ange just sat there, cool as a cucumber.

(Though Dr. B was acting oddly… Well, more oddly than normal. Was there something in the water?)

Something was _definitely _up. And Dr. Jack Hodgins, conspiracy theorist extraordinaire, was just the man to figure out what.

* * *

"Okay, Ange, what's going on?"

Angela sighed. "What do you mean?" she asked, keeping her voice completely innocent.

I rolled my eyes. _Does she really think that's going to work on me?_ "Seriously, Ange, what's going on? Dr. Brennan's practically barricaded herself in her office, you're not bugging her about it, and Booth is nowhere to be found." I ticked each point off on a finger. "Something's up. What is it?"

Angela sighed again. "I really can't tell you." I looked at her. "Really, Jack, I can't. It's none of my business."

I stared. _There's something in the water. There _has_ to be. _"Who are you and what have you done with Angela?" I demanded. Ange smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Just because I won't tell you anything doesn't mean I'm a pod person, Jack. Go bother one of the interns."

"Nah, Vincent's busy examining one of those ancient Aztecs Paleontology sent over last week, and from the way he was muttering under his breath, I really don't want to interrupt him." (He'd been muttering something about sacrificial victims and statistics a while ago, and there was _no way_ I was going near him till he stopped.)

Angela stared. "Brennan trusted an _intern_ with the remains of an ancient Aztec?" I shrugged.

"Cam's supervising, but yeah. Vincent's busy handling four-hundred-year-old remains. Why?"

"Shit. This is worse than I thought." Angela gave Dr. B's office a worried look and sighed for the third time in approximately forty seconds. She might have hit a new record. "Look, Jack, it's _really_ none of my business"—"And that's bothered you _when_?" I asked, arching my eyebrows. Ange is _infamous_ within the Jeffersonian for flirting, gossiping, and "helping out". _Infamous_, I'm telling you. Rumor has it that the director of the Egyptology department was trying to file a restraining order.

Angela gave me a dirty look and stood up. "Promise not to tell _anyone_, okay?" she asked, walking to close her office door.

I solemnly held up my hand. "No one. Swear."

Ange looked at me with a look that virtually screamed, "I am debating whether or not to trust you with this information." It was kinda hot, actually.

(Okay, so I think _everything_ she does is hot. Can you blame me? Ange is a generally hot person.)

(But that look was _especially_ hot.)

She seemed to come to some sort of internal decision, because she walked back to her chair and said, "Look, all I know is that Brennan called me at six forty-five Saturday morning, having an emotional breakdown because she thought, and I quote, that she 'had crushed Booth's heart.'"

I winced. "Ouch. Harsh. What happened?"

Ange rolled her eyes. "_Someone_ convinced Booth that it was time to put all his cards on the table and confess his undying love to Bren." She gave me a sour look. "You have three guesses as to _who_, exactly, it was."

It was an easy guess. There was only one person we knew who was idiot enough to do something like that yet smart enough to convince Booth it was a good idea. "Sweets."

Angela nodded. "Sweets. So Booth takes Sweets' advice—do _not_ ask me why, because I have _no_ idea—and tells Bren that he wants to 'give them a chance'. After kissing her and telling her that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her."

I, I am ashamed to admit, was shell-shocked. I mean, we all_ knew _Dr. B and Booth would eventually get together—it was a physical inevitability, like rain in the spring or the lifespan of _Drosophila melanogaster._ But the rest of his life? Wow. Just... wow. They hadn't even gone on a date, as far as I knew. (Unless going to lunch at the diner or late-night takeout is considered a date.)

(Which, you know, is entirely possible when you consider how convoluted their relationship is.)

"So... I take it Dr. B said no?"

Angela nodded. "Though from what I heard, it wasn't so much 'no' as 'you deserve someone better than me'." She shrugged. "I think they both took it badly. Bren was practically _sobbing_ when she called me, and Booth..." she trailed off.

"Booth?" I prompted. I sensed something juicy, hilarious, and possibly embarrassing on the Agent's part. Which would _so_ make my day. I needed a good laugh.

... Not that I _want_ to laugh at my co-worker's pain. Because I'm not a sociopath. Or sadistic.

(But you have to admit, macho-man FBI Agent Booth doing anything embarrassing and/or excessively romantic is pretty freaking hilarious. Especially where Dr. B is concerned.)

Ange sighed. "You _cannot _tell anyone what I'm going to tell you, okay? Booth _will_ shoot both you _and_ me. And Bren will probably help him hide the bodies."

"Do I _look_ like Sweets to you? I'm not suicidal, nor am I an idiot. I won't tell anyone. Just tell me already."

Ange gave the door a wary glance before continuing. "Booth apparently decided that the cure for his problems was found at the bottom of a bottle, because he got _completely wasted_, called Bren, left a drunken message on her answering machine, and then freaked out his neighbour by talking to the elevator doors about dating his goldfish." She gave me a reproachful glare when I snickered. "It's not funny, Jack. "

I looked at her. Booth tried to date his goldfish. How was that_ not_ funny?

Finally, she relented, snickering as well. "Okay, so it's a _bit_ funny, but we really shouldn't be lau—oh." Her smile suddenly disappeared, replaced with a slightly guilty look. "Hi, Booth."

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**And that, my friends, is where I leave you. :) What will Booth's reaction be? How much did he hear? :P**

**(Quick note: _Drosophila melanogaster _is the Latin name for the common fruit fly. I don't know its exact lifespan, but I expect Mr. Bug Guy would know, right? :) )**

**(Another quick note: Yup, this chapter's in first person. I'm really not sure why, but first person seems to be the easiest for me to write everyone from _Bones_ in. Hmmm.... )**

**Remember to pay homage to the God of Fan Fiction and Reviews by leaving me one! (A review, that is, not a God. :P )  
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	4. Chapter Four: Logic Takes A Hike

**SO sorry for the long time between updates, but about a month ago, I was studying for finals at the library, and my computer TRIED TO COMMIT SUICIDE. I'm serious. It was on the table, I was leaning AWAY from the table, not even touching it, to get something out of my bag, and my computer JUMPED OFF THE TABLE AND CRASHED ONTO THE FLOOR. Not. Even. Kidding. I still don't have it back, so I've been fighting my family for control of one of our home computers (it's not going in my favor, believe me.)**

**Anyway, here's chapter four, from everyone's favorite Bones' POV! :)  
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Chapter Four—Logic Takes a Hike**

I was acting completely irrationally, I knew. Mr. Nigel-Murray was one of my best graduate students, but the fact remained that technically speaking, Cam wasn't qualified to oversee him while he examined the remains of what might or might not be a 400-year-old Aztec sacrificial victim. And that, as his professor, I should be out in the lab with him, not sequestered in my office, catching up on email, paperwork, and quarterly reports.

But I couldn't help myself. I had walked into the office, and Angela, grinning widely, had proceeded to hand me a folder titled "Angela Montenegro's (Mostly) Fool-Proof Plan to Catch A Certain You-Know-Who, Hook, Line, and Sinker".

I wasn't sure what relevance fishing had on "catching Booth", but when Ange refused to take the folder back, I… well, I hid in my office. And locked the door. And drew the curtains.

I just couldn't deal with everything right then. Or anything, for that matter. I could only pray (irrationally so, for who would hear me?) that we wouldn't have a case, or that Booth would try to make everything better somehow.

(Of course, the possibility that he remembered the drunken message he left on her answering machine Friday night severely limited that possibility, but with Booth, there was no guarantee. At all.)

Angela's folder was mocking me from my desk. That stupid, drunken message was mocking me from my answering machine, and my own _brain_ was mocking me for being such an _idiot._

_You had a chance, Brennan. One chance at happily-ever-after and breaking the laws of physics and becoming one and making love. And what do you do about it?_

_You push the man away. You tell him you can't change. You tell him you're not good enough for him. _

_I'm calling bullshit, Bones._

Great. My own mind had betrayed me. Not only was it taking Booth's side, but it _sounded_ like him. It even called me _Bones_.

(I didn't know when, but somewhere, during our six-year partnership, I found I didn't mind being "Bones". Not if Booth called me it. One day, he came into the lab, telling me to "chop, chop, Bones, we got a case"… and I realized that "Don't call me that" was the last thing on my mind.)

I was busy typing away, trying to answer a student's email concerning bone deterioration and carbon dating, when someone knocked on my door.

"Bones? You in there?"

_Crap. Booth._ I glanced at the door. _Maybe he'll go away?_

"Bones? Would you open the door, please? I've got some paperwork you need to sign."

I continued typing, trying to ignore the (rather large) part of me that wanted nothing more than to open my office door, throw my arms around him, and tearfully take back everything I'd said Friday night.

_PROFESSIONAL, Temperance. You're a _professional._ Professionals do not turn their workplace into a scene from a Spanish soap opera, nor do allow their personal lives to impede with their job. Therefore, you should open the door, let the man in, and sign the papers!_

"Bones, just open the door, will you?" Booth jiggled the doorknob to emphasis his statement. "Seriously, Bones, I need you to sign these papers!"

I turned halfway around to get up and open the door, but as I did, my eyes fell on Angela's folder, perched on the corner of my desk.

"_Angela Montenegro's (Mostly) Fool-Proof Plan to Catch A Certain You-Know-Who, Hook, Line, and Sinker."_

I couldn't do it. I couldn't face Booth with the knowledge that I had quite possibly crushed his heart, the knowledge of that drunken message that he might or might not remember, and the knowledge that his neighbor didn't know who I was, but knew that his goldfish was named Bones.

The goldfish that was, obviously, named after me, because what other "Bones" did Booth know?

I sat back down and finished responding to the email. Soon, I heard Booth walk off, shuffling his feet as he went.

I didn't know what hurt worse—the fact that I had thrown away the best chance I'd ever had, or the fact that I had just effectively driven him away.

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**Well? What'd you think? Chapter Five will be coming eventually- again, I'm fighting my family for every minute of computer time I can get. :) But when it does get here, it WILL be Booth's POV of what just went on, and of the end of the last chapter. :)**

**In the meantime, you can entertain yourselves by leaving me a review with your thoughts on my writing, this story, where the plot should go, or the show in general. Or anything, really, as long as it's not TOO TOO random. :P**

**Cheers! 8D  
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	5. Chapter Five: Garth Is A Dirty Liar

**Okay... So I know I promised that this chapter was going to go into Booth's response to Angela and Hodgins' conversation... And it does. Kinda. But please don't kill me for leaving an ITTY-BITTY cliffie at the end! I promise, everything will be sorted soon. :) (And if you kill me, you'll never know how the story ends, right? :P )**

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**Chapter Five—Garth is a Dirty Liar**

You know that Garth Brooks song? The one about unanswered prayers and how they're God's greatest gift?

That. Is. Crap. Really. Garth Brooks doesn't know what he's talking about. Because I was praying like hell all the way to the Jeffersonian, and when I walked into the lab, guess who was barricaded in her office?

Yeah. Bones. I could see _everyone_ else in the lab—Cam, the weird British intern, Hodgins and Angela, hell, even the security guys were accounted for. But no Bones.

Seriously. Unanswered prayers _suck_.

"Bones in her office?" I asked Cam. She looked up from watching the British guy inspect a skeleton.

"Yeah. Do we have a case?" She looked almost hopeful. Working in a museum has really worked these people over, I'm telling you. They looked forward to gooey corpses and psycho murderers.

(Okay, I look forward to cases, too. But that's because I get to spend the time with Bones, not because I'm bored with my job. There's a difference.)

I shook my head and waved the folder in my hand. "Just need her signature on some paperwork." The British guy mumbled something about sacrificial victims and still-beating hearts. I gave him a look—that kid was _weird_.

If we ever played Trivial Pursuit, though, I wanted him on my team.

"See you, Cam." I waved and turned towards Bones' office, praying like hell. _Please, God. I've been good. Just let me get in and out as quickly as possible. PLEASE._

Hopefully, he'd listen to this one.

_

* * *

That's it. From now on, I'm praying to someone else. _Bones' office was locked up tighter than Fort Knox, the curtains were drawn, and she was ignoring me. Someone up there was laughing their ass off, I guarantee it.

"Bones? Would you open the door? I've got some paperwork you need to sign. I'm not sure what it is, but it sure looked important." Nothing. I could hear her typing away at her computer, steadfastly ignoring yours truly. "Bones, just open the door, will you?" I emphasized the last sentence with a hard jiggle to the doorknob. "Seriously, Bones, would you open the damn door already?" No response.

Fine. If she wanted to play it that way, I wouldn't stop her. I'd just have to pull out the big guns. Angela was in her office. If anyone could get Bones to open her office door, she could. I spun around, clenching my jaw.

_Ten-to-one says my guardian angel's Saint Jude. Ten-to-freaking-one._

_

* * *

_

I could see Angela and Hodgins discussing something as I walked up to her office door. Hopefully, it wasn't me. I opened the door in time to hear Angela finish speaking.

"...his goldfish." Hodgins snickered. "It's not funny, Jack." Soon enough, though, she succumbed to temptation, and began to snicker as well.

_I should turn around right now, go back to the Hoover, and tell Hacker that Bones called in sick. Yeah, that's what I should do. Because there's no way I'm sticking around much longer. Not when Angela knows about my goldfish._

I was jumping to conclusions, I know. But I had a vague memory of Sarah telling Bones about Dr. Bones the fish, and that, coupled with the fact that my guardian angel seemed to be Saint Jude, just confirmed my assumption.

I really should have just walked away. Really. But my feet weren't responding to my commands to "just walk away, dammit!"

It didn't help when Angela saw me standing in her office doorway, and instantly stopped laughing. She looked and sounded guiltier that some suspects I've interrogated as she said, "Oh. Hi, Booth."

Yeah. Today freaking _rocked_.

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**So... yeah. Cliffie. Like I said before, please don't kill me. :)**

**Chapter Six is DEFINITELY gonna take a while, because I should be getting my computer back soon, and I have to transfer files, and update it, and probably back it up, and all sorts of stuff. But I'm GETTING IT BACK! YAY! :D**

**Don't forget to tell me what you think/express your anger at my cliffie/rant about the show/ give me suggestions as to what should happen next! :)  
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	6. Chapter Six: Ease Into It

**Hi again! Sorry for the delay- I had four separate ideas for this chapter, and sorting through them took a while. :) But sort through them I did, so here is Chapter Six, from the POV of everyone's slightly-flaky artist! :D**

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Chapter Six—Ease Into It**

"_Oh. Hi, Booth."_

Can I just say that that was _not_ one of the high points in my life? And certainly not one of Jack's?

Because I was serious when I told him that if Booth found out what I told Jack, he'd probably kill both of us. And Bren would _definitely_ help him hide the bodies.

And now Booth was staring at me and Jack, silent. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Most likely, it was something along the lines of, "I can't shoot them here. There're too many people around."

And then he covered his face with his hand. "Oh, this is just _great._" He pointed at both of us. "Look, the fish? Is _Parker's_. Okay? And all I want is for Angela here," the finger moved to point at me, "to get _Bones_," he pointed behind him, in the general direction of Bren's office, "to open her door and sign these papers. Okay?"

"Dr. B's been barricaded in her office all morning," Jack pointed out. Booth glared at him.

"No shit, Sherlock." He looked at me again. "Look, all I need is for Bones to open up and sign these papers, and then she can go back to being a professional hermit or whatever the hell she's doing, all right?"

"And you want _me_ to convince _Brennan _to do that?" Like that was going to happen. Bren wasn't going to open up for anyone, much less _me_. Especially since my folder (cleverly titled "Angela Montenegro's (Mostly) Fool-Proof Plan to Catch A Certain You-Know-Who, Hook, Line, and Sinker") was what made her barricade herself in her office in the first place.

In hindsight, I _probably_ shouldn't have just _handed_ the folder to her. Bren needs to be eased into things like that.

Booth looked at me like I'd just said the most obvious thing ever. "Uh, yeah?"

_Oh, _so_ not happening. _I got up and walked towards him. "Listen, big guy, I am many things, but 'miracle worker' isn't one of them. And _trust me_, after Friday, it'll take a miracle to get Bren to _consider_ opening that office door." I poked him in the chest for good measure. Like I said, Bren needs to be eased into things. And from what I heard of Friday? He did _not_ do _any _easing.

In his defense, he did have the sense to look sheepish. All wasn't lost after all. He knew he'd gone about it the wrong way—now all I had to do was convince him to do it the _right_ way.

I sighed and snatched the folder out of his hand. "What is this, anyway? Paperwork?" Booth nodded, shrugging.

"Need it signed by Bones and on the boss's desk by lunch. Bones won't open her door."

"You tried knocking?" Booth gave Jack another dirty look.

"Of _course_ I tried knocking. I tried asking, too." He gave me a pleading look. "Could you just get her to open her door? _Please_?"

_Step 1: Initiate Contact._ I sighed. "Well, since you said _please_…" I waved the folder in my hand. "I'll do my best."

Booth gave me a winning smile—the kind that had women everywhere swooning. The kind that reminded me _why_, exactly, Bren was a bit of an idiot.

Of course, the fact that she _was_ a bit of an idiot was why I was doing this for Booth in the first place. I smiled at Jack, who was still looking a bit shell-shocked, and led the way out of my office.

* * *

"Bren?" I knocked on the door. _Ease into it, Ange. Just ease._ "Hey, Bren, you in there?"

For once, I was glad that the office doors in the lab weren't soundproof, because I clearly heard her annoyed sigh. "Ange, I really don't want to talk right now."

"Sweetie, I know you're working through things the only way you know how, but I'm just trying to help."

"I don't think handing me a folder with instructions on how to seduce Booth could be classified as 'helping'."

"_What?_" Booth squawked softly. "_Angela!_"

I gave him a dirty look. "_Oh, shut up, Mister Let's-Dump-Everything-On-Bren-In-Two-Minutes_," I whispered.

He looked confused and a bit pissed off. _Oh, please. You can't be _that_ oblivious._

On the other side of the door, Bren sighed. "Did Booth put you up to this, Ange?"

"Sweetie, all he needs is your signature on some paperwork, okay? I've got it right here. Could you sign it?"

"Please, Bones?" Booth added. I gave him another dirty look. No need to go around _reminding_ her of Friday night. I'd _never_ get her out of her office.

Booth just glared right back at me. I rolled my eyes. _It's your fault we're doing this, buster. Live with it._

To my shock, Bren didn't go back to ignoring the outside world. She sighed again and opened the door, holding out her hand and refusing to look at Booth.

I beamed at her and handed her the folder. _Good job, sweetie._ She signed the papers and handed them back to me, managing to completely avoid looking at Booth the entire time.

_Step 2: Initiate Conversation._ I opened my mouth, but Booth beat me to it.

"Thanks, Bones," he said gratefully, taking the folder from me. He gave his best Brennan-melting smile, but Bren was already closing the door to her office. _So much for Step 2._

His face fell. "Well, that went well," he muttered to the folder before glancing up at me. "Thanks, Ange." He started walking towards the lab doors.

I cut him off. "Not so fast, Mr. FBI-guy. _You_ are going to explain _everything _to me, including the fish, and _then_ I will give you advice on how you can start trying to fix all this."

Booth just looked at me. "Ange, look, I really appreciate the help, but… not right now, okay?"

He looked so pitiful, I almost gave in, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. This was _Booth_ and _Brennan_, for God's sake! They were _made_ for each other! If they couldn't get together, than there was _absolutely_ no hope for mere mortals like me. I gave him my best no-nonsense look, grabbed his arm, and dragged him back to my office.

He was going to listen to me if I had to tie him to a chair first.

* * *

**Chapter Seven should be coming right up- all I have to do is edit it, really, and that's not going to take long at all. :) So keep an eye out for that!**

**I've been considering continuing this storyline into Season Six, because it certainly fits with what I've heard of the general storyline of the season (not spilling anything, but Booth is a bit of an idiot)- what do y'all think? (And yup, that was a not-so-subtle review hint. Did it work? :P )**

**Cheers!  
**


	7. Chapter Seven: Mass Insanity

**Okay, I'm SO sorry for the long wait! School just kinda attacked me. :) And I know you probably want to kill me right now for making you wait so long... but here's Chapter Seven! :D Get excited, right?  
**

**

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Chapter Seven—Mass Insanity**

You ever get the feeling that the entire world's insane? Or that you woke up in the wrong life or something?

I had that feeling Monday. I mean, it started off normal enough—I dragged myself out of bed (a morning person I'm not), made myself a cup of coffee, took the metro to work, and spent the entire morning telling people that yes, the tower is the big rectangular metal thing with the lights and buttons, and yes, it is necessary to use it and to hook it up to your monitor.

And then I got an email from "sbooth007", subject line "Food?"

It didn't take a genius to figure out that "sbooth007" was Seeley Booth, my neighbour, so I opened the email.

And that's when I got that feeling I talked about earlier. Because I might be Booth's neighbour, and he might have (kinda creepily, to be honest) tracked down my email (which I didn't give to him), but he _definitely_ doesn't ask me to bring him Thai food. Or ask if I can give him advice on "how to deal with psycho women".

On that note, why would he ask _me_ how to deal with psycho women? I'm not psycho, I date men, and I haven't even been legal a decade—not the most experienced person out there, you have to admit.

But I gotta admit, I owed the guy something big, even if he denies it, so I told my boss I needed some extra time at lunch but I'd stay late tonight and took off, wondering where the hell I was supposed to find a Thai restaurant that sold veggie meals and why on God's green Earth Booth couldn't have tried someone else. I mean, I don't like to poke around in people's lives, but even _I_ was interested in what Booth wanted to know.

After all, the world might've gone insane, but that didn't mean I wasn't along for the ride.

* * *

Lucky for me, the first Thai restaurant I walked into had an all-veggie meal _and_ some stuff I thought Booth would like (he'd probably kill me if I showed up without meat of some kind), and I guess no one's tried to blow up the Hoover Building with takeout before, because I didn't have a problem with security.

"Knock-knock." I leaned around Booth's half-open office door. _Lucky schmuck gets an office. I get a grey cube. A _small_ grey cube._ "I bring tidings of Thai food and whatever advice I can give you, but I warn you, I'm not an expert on psycho women. Talk to a shrink."

Booth just looked at me. "The shrink's part of the problem."

I shrugged and walked all the way into the room. "Talk to a different one, then. Besides, didn't you tell me you minored in Criminal Psychology?" I handed him the bag of takeout, and he started sorting through everything as I sat down and cleared off part of his desk.

"Yeah, well, that only really helps me in the interrogation room and when I'm trying to find motive," Booth commented, handing me my vegetarian fried rice. "How to deal with psychotic women wasn't part of the class."

I shrugged and grabbed a pair of chopsticks. "So why're you asking me? You _never_ ask me for advice."

"I have too!" Booth protested. "Remember, after my coma? I asked you what I should do."

I gave him a look. "You bitched to me about twelve-year-old shrinks and coma-induced dreams and referred to your work partner as 'Bren'. I told you to just go with the flow, and if you turned out to really be in love with your Bren to sit her down someplace without criminals or dead bodies and tell her." He nodded. "That's not really advice, per se. It's more like common sense."

He shrugged and became intensely interested in his beef pad ped. "It was better than the other advice I got," he muttered. He stirred his meal around for a few seconds, then looked up at me. "Speaking of bitching, did we talk Friday night?"

I shrugged, focusing more on my rice and chopsticks than the conversation. "Well, _you_ certainly talked, and I heard it, but you weren't really talking to _me…_ Does that count?"

"Yeah, close enough. What did I talk about?" He really sounded worried, so I looked up. He _looked_ worried, too, like he vaguely remembered something, but didn't know if it was as bad or worse than he remembered. I knew the feeling—I'd seen it (and felt it) _way_ too much.

"Um… Well, I think the elevator doors told you to date your goldfish, and your goldfish rejected you. Why?"

If anything, that scared look on his face got even worse. "Which goldfish?"

"Dr. Bones. Again, Booth, why?"

He dropped his food and put his head in his hands. "Great. Absolutely fan-freaking-tastic."

"_What_, Booth?" God, getting an answer out of him was like trying to discuss philosophy with a monkey, only with the monkey, you know what the issue is. And I was pretty sure I wasn't speaking French.

"I'm an idiot," he muttered into his hands. "A complete and total idiot, and someone needs to shoot me. Quickly."

"Booth, for frick's sake, _what the hell is wrong_?"

His hand was covering up most of his mouth, so I didn't _exactly_ catch what he said, but it sounded an awful lot like, "Bread is bone."

Which is odd, and kinda disgusting, because I dunno about you, but I don't want any bones in _my_ bread. That's just _gross_.

(Plus, it probably breaks the "vegetarian" part of my diet. Because, y'know, the only animal products I eat are dairy and the occasional shrimp. No blood (or bones) involved.)

(Though I suppose, technically speaking, shrimp have exoskeletons… But I don't eat _that_ part of the shrimp.)

"Could you repeat that, Booth? I didn't _quite_ catch it."

Booth sighed and moved his hand away from his mouth. "_Bren_ is _Bones_, Sarah."

…And that made as much sense as "bread is bone". "Am I missing something here?"

Booth sighed again. "I call Bren _Bones_, okay, Sarah? You're the only person who's used to me calling her _Bren_."

Oh. Now _that_ made a whole lot more sense.

Kinda. "Why?"

"Because she works with bones for a living," Booth said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I shook my head.

"Not 'why do you call her Bones'. Why do you call her _Bren_ around _me_?"

Booth gave me a look. "I thought you weren't into butting into people's lives."

I shrugged. "You're the one who _asked_ me for advice. And besides, just because I don't make a habit of it doesn't mean I'm not curious." I set my food down on the corner of his desk and leaned forward. "So. You gonna tell me what's going on or not?"

* * *

**Well? What'd you think? Now does _The Morning After _make a bit more sense? :) Please say it does. I'd like to think I cleared up some stuff from before. And does it also make up for the fact that I've kept all of y'all waiting for so long? :)  
**

**Only two more chapters to go!  
**


	8. Chapter Eight: It's Not Stalking

**Wow. This took forever and a day to get up. Sorry about that- Sweets just wasn't talking to me. He kept sounding British. (But, you know, that's probably what I get for watching _Doctor Who_. :P )**

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* * *

Chapter Eight—It's Not Stalking. Really, It Isn't.**

I am a _crap_ psychologist. Seriously. For one thing, my book is crap. I wasn't even smart enough to double-check my conclusions—and all I had to do was look in their files, for God's sake! I should've known that the Cleo Eller case wasn't their first one.

I really screwed up on the advice part of my job, though. I'm supposed to _help_ patients, not scare them off! And Friday night, I thought I was giving Agent Booth some majorly sound advice in a way that practically guaranteed he'd pay attention (even if the last time I'd given him advice, it was to tell him that his brain was screwing him over)… and I'd failed. Epically.

But that's not why I'm a crap psychologist. I'm a crap psychologist mainly because, even though I spent three hours and forty-seven minutes (but who's counting?) trying to convince Agent Booth to tell me what happened Friday night, I came up with nothing. I spent my entire morning calling Agent Booth, texting Agent Booth, emailing Agent Booth, and devising plans to corner him in the break room for what? Nada. Zip. Zilch.

(On that note, I'd like to point out that I'm _totally_ straight as a ruler, and Agent Gibson's reaction to everything was _so_ unnecessary.)

(Though I do admit that it _might_ have been possible to take the incident in the bathroom the wrong way… But I've got a girlfriend! I don't have a man crush on Agent Booth! I _swear_!)

Anyway, the point is that nothing worked. It was like the guy had some sort of spider sense that helped him avoid me. Avidly.

And _that_ is the reason why I'm a crap psychologist. Because Agent Booth is not the type of man who avoids confrontation, especially when the second party is a man he perceives as weaker or intimidated by him.

(Which, I admit, I am. On both counts. But that's not the point.)

So the fact that he _was_ avoiding me was HUGE. And yeah, I noticed that he was avoiding me, and yeah, I was annoyed by it, but I didn't realize its significance. At all.

Like I said: crap book, crap backbone, mega-crap psychologist.

* * *

My last resort for getting the story of what happened Friday night was the diner. Agent Booth almost always went to the diner for lunch, and nine times out of ten, he dragged Dr. Brennan along with him. I figured that if I spent my _entire_ lunch hour in the diner, facing the door, paying close attention to who was coming in and out, I'd be able to corner one (or both) of them eventually.

The only problem? Neither of them showed up. I sat at their usual table, facing the door, watching everyone who came in or out, but neither of them came. Eventually, I had to give up the plan—lunch hour was over, and besides, I had an appointment at 1:30. And I knew for a fact that Agent Booth had a meeting at 1:15.

… I wasn't stalking him, I _swear_. I just… happened to overhear him talking about it. That's all.

(That doesn't sound any better, does it?)

Anyway, I was getting up to leave the diner when Angela walked in and headed straight for me. And judging by the look on her face, she wasn't planning on asking me for relationship advice. In fact, I was pretty sure she was about to Hulk out and kill me.

(And yes, "Hulk out" _is_ a medical term.)

And that's when I knew. I knew _exactly_ what happened Friday night, and not only was I going to die, but I was gonna have to pick up the pieces afterwards.

_Shit._

She sat down calmly, despite the look on her face, and for about three seconds, I thought that maybe she _wasn't _planning my slow and painful death.

"What the hell were you _thinking_?"

… Or maybe she was.

_Play dumb. Maybe she'll think I'm too… _something_ to die._ "Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb with me," Angela warned. "I know _all_ about Friday night, and I want to know what the _hell_ you were thinking, pushing them like that."

_There goes that idea._ I sighed. _I should just get this over with. Maybe she'll kill me quickly._

"I asked Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan to read over the manuscript for my book. The premise of the book was basically that the two of them were in love with each other but afraid of acting on those feelings."

Angela nodded, still glaring at me. I paused, bolstered my courage, and continued.

"My entire conclusion was based on my assumption that the Cleo Eller case was their first"—"Which is wasn't," Angela interrupted. I nodded.

"It wasn't. They told me about their first case, and the kiss they shared, and based off of that and my earlier conclusions… I urged Agent Booth to make the first move."

Angela nodded. "Yeah, buddy, you did. Do you know what happened?"

"Not exactly…" I hedged. Angela planted her hands on the table and leaned towards me.

"_Bren turned Booth down flat_," she hissed. "Do you know why?" This time, she didn't give me a chance to answer. "Because Booth dumped everything on her in _two minutes._ He started talking about decades and 'that guy' and 'giving this a chance', and Bren _freaked. Out._ She turned him down, he got drunk, and Bren called me at seven Saturday morning in the middle of a hysterical _breakdown_. She's been in her office _all day_, and Booth had to get _me_ to convince her to _acknowledge his existence_." She leaned across the table. "So I repeat: what the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Somehow, I didn't think "It seemed like a good idea at the time" would be a smart response. I kept my mouth shut, and Angela kept talking.

"I mean, you're a _psychologist_, for God's sake! Your whole job is knowing how people's minds works! You of all people should know that Bren needs to be eased into things like committed, monogamous relationships! The last monogamous relationship she has was with _Sully_, okay? And everyone knows how well _that_ ended."

… "Who?" _I'd _never heard of this Sully person.

Great. Just another thing about my patients' lives that I was completely oblivious to. I really am a crap psychologist.

Angela rolled her eyes. "This Agent Bren dated for a while. It was her first serious relationship in over a year. He sailed off to the Caribbean. She almost went, too." She looked at me. "That's not the point, though. The _point_ is that, thanks to you, _five years_ of progress is now _ruined_, thanks to you." She was glaring at me again.

Well, she was just going to have to deal with it. I was through taking crap for Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan's stagnating relationship. Change is necessary for survival. I remembered that much from Freshman Bio. And Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan might have been awe-inspiringly larger-than-life (unless they spent an hour of my day arguing about Agent Booth's eating habits) figures, but biology still applied to them.

I made up my mind and braced myself. Angela might kill me, but I was sticking to my guns. Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan _needed_ Friday night to keep moving, changing, evolving. Unfortunately, they were moving in the wrong direction.

Hey, you know what? Maybe I'm not such a crap psychologist after all.

* * *

**Well? What'd you think? Did you love it? Did you hate it? Do you want to maim Sweets for life?**

**I won't know unless you tell me. :) (Hint: Yes, I'm talking about reviewing. I've been getting very little, and I'm not sure if it's due to everyone jumping ship now that Season Six has started, my writing, or what. So please tell me? :) )  
**


	9. Chapter Nine: Rocket Science

**A/N: First of all: I'm SO sorry for the wait! RL has been just _attacking _me for all it's worth, and this is the first chance I've really had to update _anything_, much less this story.**

**Second: YAY! This is the FINAL CHAPTER! :D My _second _completed fic! :D**

**Tell me what you think, _please_! :)  
**

**

* * *

Chapter 9: Rocket Science  
**

"_You're the one who _asked _me for advice. And besides, just because I don't make a habit of it doesn't mean I'm not curious." Sarah put her food down on the desk and leaned forward. "So. You gonna tell me what's going on or not?"_

Well, when she put it like that… And what choice did I have, really? It's not as if her advice could make my day any worse.

So I told Sarah. I told her everything—what happened Friday night (at least, what I _remember_ happening), my absolutely craptastic day, my partner who had apparently decided to take up a position as the Jeffersonian's resident hermit, my creepy stalker/shrink, the tons of paperwork I was buried under, the crazy artist who had threatened to castrate me if I didn't at least _try _to make everything right, all of it. I even went into depth about my coma-dream and Bren and why I didn't call Bones "Bones" around her.

(It was mainly because about half the time I spent around Sarah was at a dive bar down the block, and I tended to be a bit tipsy, but also because Sarah didn't know I wasn't technically supposed to call Bones "Bren" in the first place. Something about retarding my recovery, according to Sweets.)

"… And now she won't even talk to me, and I _know_ I messed up Friday, but I don't know how I can make it right. But I _need_ to figure that out, because Bre-_Bones_ is…_ Bones_, you know? And I need her." I looked at Sarah with my best puppy-dog, please-pretty-please-help-me eyes. "What should I do?"

Sarah looked at me. Luckily, she decided not to bring up the fact that I didn't know what to call Bones around her. "You _really_ wanna know what I think?" I nodded. She shrugged.

"You've done all you can, in my opinion. I mean, sure, you screwed up—you pushed her, and it sounds like she doesn't deal well with change, and you didn't come right out and _tell_ her anything, really—but you"—"Whoa," I interrupted. "I didn't _tell_ her anything? I told her _plenty_. I told her _everything_. I had this whole _speech_ about thirty and forty years and 'I'm that guy' and giving us a chance. What do you _mean_ I didn't tell her anything?"

Sarah rolled her eyes and tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. "Look, Booth. Yeah, you had that nice speech. And yeah, you told her you wanted to 'give it a chance'. And maybe you even called her by her given name, which would be a miracle in itself—but you didn't _tell_ her anything. Yeah?" She looked at me like I was supposed to know what she was talking about.

I looked at her blankly. She made even less sense than the squints. What did she _mean_, I'd "told" Bones stuff, but that I didn't "_tell_" her stuff? It was the same verb.

(And I thought my speech was pretty nice.)

Sarah sighed. "Look, you had this great speech, right?" I nodded. At least we agreed on _something. "_And you talked about decades of life together and being 'that guy' and crap, right?" I nodded again. "But, and correct me if I'm wrong, you never actually came out and _told her_ what you just told me, right?"

I just looked at her. I was pretty sure I'd told Bones what I'd told Sarah, because I'd told Bones _first_…

Sarah rolled her eyes again. "For frick's sake, Booth, this isn't rocket science. Did you or did you not come out and say, 'I love you, and I need you, and I want to spend the rest of my slightly-pathetic life with you'?"

"My life is not _pathetic_," I protested. Sarah raised her eyebrows.

"You're getting romantic advice from a girl practically young enough to be your kid," she pointed out. "And you apparently spent your entire morning finding my email."

I flushed. Okay, she had a point. But I didn't spend my _whole_ morning tracking down her email—only an hour. I _am_ an FBI Agent, after all.

Besides, who else was I supposed to talk to? Angela had made it _very clear_ that she blamed me for the whole fiasco, Sweets was _stalking _me (and if anyone thought I was going to _him_ for relationship advice after Friday night, I've got a nice bridge in Brooklyn to sell), and for all I knew, Cam blamed me, too. And there was _no way_ I was asking _Hodgins_ for relationship advice. No way in _hell_.

Sarah sighed. "Okay, Booth—have you ever watched a chick flick?" I stared at her. What kind of question was _that_? Did I _look_ gay? "Oh, don't get your panties in a twist," she said sourly. "I won't tell anyone."

I glared at her. "Fine. Yeah, I have. Why?"

"You know how the guy always goes through hell and back to get the girl?" I nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, well, that? Is _not_ a good way to begin a relationship."

"…It _is_ a movie…" I pointed out. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, it is. But the fact remains that in this little place we like to call 'reality', _both_ parties need to put out a little. You've done all you can—you screwed it up a bit, especially with that 'I love you in a totally professional way' declaration of yours—but overall, you did a good job. You put all your cards on the table. Now the ball's in her court. _She's_ got to decide if she's going to get her head out her ass and propose or run off to a third-world country to dig up dead people. _Capice_?"

"I think you're mixing metaphors a bit." Sarah glared at me.

"Out of _all that_, you're concerned about my _metaphors_?" She threw up her hands. "No _wonder_ you can't get any."

"_Hey!_" I crossed my arms and glared at her. I could get some. Whether or not I _did_ was a completely different matter… but I _could_ get some.

If, you know, I _really wanted_ to.

Sarah just rolled her eyes again and reached for her fried rice. "Oh, get over yourself. You haven't been getting any since before I moved into my apartment and we both know it. It's old news. Besides, Parker's been asking me if I'll set you up with one of my friends. Apparently, if daddy ain't happy, ain't _nobody _happy."

_Well, at least he still isn't on that pool kick._ I gave up glaring and sighed. "Your metaphors _are_ mixed, you know."

Sarah swallowed and shrugged. "So sue me. I barely passed high school English anyway. The fact that I remember what a metaphor _is_, much less that you can mix them, is practically a minor miracle."

This time, I was the one who rolled my eyes. Knowing Sarah, "barely passing" meant a low B, or maybe a high C. She was smart, even if she hadn't gone through college. "Fine. Whatever. You're mixing metaphors, I have a pathetic love life, and the best advice I can get is from a kid more than a decade younger than me."

Sarah grinned and pointed her chopsticks at me. "Don't call me 'kid', or I'll be forced to kick your ass." It was a familiar argument—safe ground.

And at this point, I could take all the safe ground I could get. I picked up my pad ped as I retorted, "Hart, I could take you with both hands tied behind my back and you know it."

Sarah cocked an eyebrow, smirking. "Not if I hit you where it hurts."

I scoffed around a mouthful of beef. Things were starting to look up. Okay, so I had a pathetic love life. And yeah, I _was_ taking advice from a kid—sorry, _girl_—almost young enough to be my daughter. And _sure_, Sarah mixed up her metaphors. But she hadn't threatened to castrate me, and I still had safe ground.

Besides, her advice _was_ pretty good. I mean, all things considered.

And anyway, the way my luck was going, takeout, safe ground, and everything still attached was as good as this week was going to get.

Yeah, I know, still pathetic.

(Seriously, though, don't tell anyone.)

* * *

**Like I said up above, this is THE FINAL CHAPTER! :D _The Monday After_ is now officially DONE! (w00t! :P )**

**I don't know if I have the time and/or inclination to continue this storyline into Season Six, but who knows? If enough of you ask for it, I might just go ahead and give it a try. (*wink wink* :P )**

**Thank you for reading, and sticking with me through my months-long absence. (I really am sorry about that. :) )  
**


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